


Defend, Deflect, Yield

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Courtship, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, realizing that you are in love complicates things. Tentative courtship fic, post-Seine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defend, Deflect, Yield

The moment Javert is well enough to leave, he does.

Valjean does not know where the man lives, and does not dare to check any of the stations for him. He worries, though he owes Javert nothing; he spends his days wracked with guilt and anger. He takes long walks along the Seine, but is not comforted by the absence of floating bodies. It was a long two months of recovery, a trial in wrestling a man's body and conscience, with wounds from words that bled more freely than anything Javert could have inflicted on himself. He thought, toward the end, that they had perhaps reached a truce, something gentle, which allowed a tenuous trust.

Now Javert is gone, and the Seine is empty, and Valjean worries about a man who was never his enemy and could never be his friend.

Valjean resigns himself to the fact of Javert's death when two weeks have passed with no sign of the man. He prays often. He tells himself it was not a waste, though it seems such a bitter one. He did everything he could. 

A month passes.

Valjean's garden begins to die as the cold winds of September sweep through Paris, and the mornings are frost-hardened and bitter. Cosette has slipped away from him. He is slipping away from himself.

It is midway through September when there is a knock on his door. Valjean is not expecting any visitors, and so does not answer, though he is not preoccupied; he has been trying to read for an hour and a half, but has mostly been holding the book and gazing listlessly at the far wall, lost in memories. The caller knocks again, louder this time, with sharp, insistent raps. Valjean shuts the book and listens. They will give up after this, he thinks.

This time, they pound on the door. Valjean sighs, dons his coat so as to appear busier than he is, and makes sure there is a handful of francs in his pocket before going to answer the door. 

It is Javert, as sudden and vivid as an apparition—but he must be real; his face is flushed by the cold wind and his cravat slightly crooked, and his general appearance gives the air of a man who has rushed here. He is even slightly out-of-breath, though he tries to calm his panting when the door opens. 

They stare at each other in silence, mirroring each other's stunned expressions, though Valjean cannot fathom why Javert would be surprised to see him when he came and knocked on his door. 

Javert clears his throat. "May I come in?"

Valjean stands aside. He notices that Javert is using a walking cane, and leans heavily on it as he steps inside. Valjean shuts the door and resists the urge to lean against it. Memories of those two months of healing flood through him, bringing with him anger and resentment and fear and a deep undercurrent of fondness. Part of him wants to touch Javert, to ensure that he is real. Another part wishes to strike him across the face. He's at a loss for words.

Javert, clearly, has an abundance. "Valjean," he says, "I do not know where to begin. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I cannot take this anymore, and it's taken many days to find you, so you can imagine how—how I—" He stops and clears his throat; he doffs his hat and inclines in an awkward half-bow to Valjean. "I know what you must think. I expect you will throw me out once you've heard what I have to say, but I must say it, Monsieur, if you please." He pauses, looking at Valjean in the gray light of the hallway.

"I thought you were dead," Valjean says, flatly.

Javert hesitates, then nods. "I did not want you to find me," he admits. "I wanted to forget what you had done to me. I wanted to become—nevermind that. But I—" He stops short. He seems small without his hat, with his shoulders hunched in, his hand tight on the head of his cane. "Valjean, I could not. I am sorry. I wish to—I wish—Valjean, I would like to walk with you a while, or talk. Have you eaten? I've a few francs, and we could eat—you look unwell. I..." Again he trails off.

Valjean does not know what to do with him—this is not the Inspector he knew, or the broken man he'd tried to save. Valjean feels that he is missing something vital, some clue that could help him understand Javert's flustered rambling. "Maybe another day, Javert," he says, quietly. Javert blinks at him in the gray shadows of the hall and straightens his back. "I am tired today." 

"Then rest, Monsieur," he says, and bows his head. "I will come back tomorrow." 

*

The next day, true to his word, he returns, though he is much more composed than he was yesterday. When Javert discovers that he is still listless and has little energy, the man asks if he can use his kitchen and comes back out an hour later with a steaming bowl of soup and a few thick slices of bread. Valjean accepts it wordlessly and begins to eat, though the food sits heavily in his stomach. It occurs to him that he did the same for Javert as summer came on hot and sticky, and it seems strange that their roles have switched. 

When he is finished, Javert takes the empty bowl from him—and their hands touch as he does. It is not an accident. He looks into Valjean's face as their hands brush, and there is something of his flushed hurry from yesterday, and then his hand is gone, and the moment has passed, and Valjean's chest is tight with anger. Javert does not have the right to do this to him, he thinks. (To do what? a voice in him wonders, but he has no answer to that.)

Javert leaves soon after, tipping his hat to him. He asks if he might come on Friday, and Valjean nods, not sure why he allows it.

That Friday, Javert coaxes Valjean into a walk. They talk very little as they go, and Javert keeps a keen eye on the fellow pedestrians, as if expecting trouble. After half an hour, he rests his hand on the small of Valjean's back for a moment, the touch tremulous and brief.

It is then that Valjean understands. Things that were unclear: Javert's dark eyes following him, the jerk of his shoulder when Valjean came too close, the lingering way he would hand Valjean bowls and plates, his held breath when he was still too weak to dress himself and Valjean had to expend care with each button—it all is transparent, now, with that simple touch, and yet from that clarity springs so many questions that frighten Valjean. 

He does not shy from the touch. It passes, and Javert tucks the hand in the pocket of his greatcoat, and they continue on their way as if nothing has changed. 

When they return to Valjean's home and Javert asks him if he might come by another day, he hesitates in his reply. He knows, now, why the Inspector wishes to see him. He does not know what it might mean for himself. He wishes to forgive Javert his absence; he wishes to be left alone; he wishes to understand so many things. There is a formless anxiety inside him, one he is even afraid to find words for.

But Javert is watching him, and there is fear in his face, too, and Valjean has always had more room in his heart for hope. He cedes, and Javert almost smiles, and Valjean finds his own mouth softening in reply.

The evening is a little warmer for it.


End file.
